


Where the Heart goes to Heal

by Defira



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the traumatic events at Kinloch Hold, Cullen is sent to the remote chapter house at Greenfell to recover, an order he takes to be little more than a punishment. Meanwhile, struggling to come to terms with the horrors of the Blight, Penny Amell cannot shake the guilt and grief at having survived such an ordeal when so many others perished. At the suggestion of her beloved Leliana, she slips away for a brief chance at solitude before she is required to take up the mantle of Commander and Arlessa. </p>
<p>Her path takes her to Greenfell- and to Cullen, a man whose love she had tried time and again to forget. </p>
<p>(A gift for my beloved Liz, featuring her Penny Amell)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bioticbootyshaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/gifts).



_9.30 Dragon_

He dreamed of a purple cage, as he always did. 

It started with the screaming- his or someone else’s, he could never tell- and the dream dragged him upwards from the blessed blankness of sleep. He fought against it with everything in him, but just as always it was never enough. The incessant purple light cast a sickening glow over everything, unnatural and unending and stronger than he was no matter how he railed against it.

It was incoherent, unstructured, as his mind reeled from one horror to the next- he fought shapeless creatures until his sword ran thick with their noxious blood, he clawed screaming at the grasping, grabbing hands until his knuckles cracked and bled. There were voices calling to him, begging him for help, and he blocked them out, pressing blood-slicked palms to his ears as he screeched at them to stop. 

He saw faces that melted to nothing, their pleading eyes turning to dark, alien nothingness- friends and colleagues and children (Maker but the children were always the worst) and he screamed for help even as he snarled and fought, even as they slowly stripped away his defenses, even as they wore _her_ face to fool him. 

The purple cage confined him, and he was going to die here.

Cullen woke with a start, the taste of blood in his mouth as his heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He did not scream as he escaped from the dream, as he used to- he’d had months of practice at it, hundreds of mornings to become accustomed to the clinging terror that followed him out of sleep, and he no longer cried out in desperate panic or flung himself from bed as if the demons in his head could follow him into consciousness.

Could he count that as a victory, proof that he had retained some mastery of himself again? 

He slumped back against the mattress, rubbing wearily at his face as the tension in his muscles grudgingly eased. 

He stared up at the roof, the sweat cold on his skin in the chill of the morning, the sheets still tangled in tight knots around his legs where he’d thrashed about in his sleep. He knew the shapes in the rafters by memory now, having spent endless evenings counting the beams in the hope of lulling himself to sleep, tracing peculiar patterns in the stone as if the repetition would soothe his miserable anger. 

It never did, but it was better than lying there reliving his each and every failure. 

The events of Kinloch Hold were months gone, and according to the news they’d had in the last few weeks, the Blight was well and truly conquered too. He had been denied the opportunity to assist with either, confined to the quiet and solitude of the chapter house at Greenfell. He had come to this place to heal- a coward, sent away in shame and denied the chance to fight on the front lines, an ugly blemish on the fragile stability of Kinloch Hold. He did not deny that his experiences beneath the Harrowing Chamber had marked him, nor did he question the fact that not all of the scars left upon him were physical ones. 

And in a way, he’d at least had time to come to terms with what had happened. He no longer woke screaming, clawing at unseen assailants as he fought away from cruel and curious and teasing hands. 

_What a victory that was_ , he thought bitterly.

He sat up, wincing at the aches and twinges across his body, ageing him before he was ready; he swung his legs over the side of the bed and paused, the cold stone floor like ice beneath his feet. The fire in the grate had died down some time in the night, and if there were still embers burning then they were buried beneath the snowy ash and black misshapen lumps-

- _the rage demons swarmed over Ser Avery, his skin swelling and blistering as he screamed, his hair aflame as he disappeared beneath their mass, nothing more than a blackened, hissing lump that popped and cracked and crackled in the hours it took the corpse to cool_ -

He looked away from the grate sharply, his fingers gripping the side of the bed so fiercely that he could feel the sheets stretching and ripping beneath his nails. He chewed them down to bloody stubs most of the time, part nervous habit and partly to stop himself from scratching himself when the worst of the night terrors gripped him; even so, he forcibly had to relax his hands, a broken thread caught in the corner of one of his broken nails. He tugged it free irritably and tossed it onto the floor. 

It was still grey outside, the gloom of the night lingering, and with a sigh he levered himself to his feet slowly, wobbling for a moment before limping across the small room to the dresser. The water in the bowl he used for bathing had a thin film of ice across the top, and he grimaced as he pushed a cloth through with a crack, icy water rushing up to meet his fingers. It was so cold that it hurt, but he did little more than grunt in response to the pain as he scrubbed the cloth ruthlessly over his face, as if he could scour away more than just the crumbs of sleep from the corners of his eyes. 

If he could have scrubbed until the dreams went with them, he would have. 

His breath was steaming in front of him in the cold morning air as he dumped the cloth back in the bowl, and he leaned for a moment against the dresser, exhaustion dragging at him alongside the hopeless anger. 

He huffed out a breath in frustration, rolling his shoulders before easing himself to the floor, stretching out and propping himself up onto his hands as he began his morning workout. As he counted his way to one hundred sit-ups, the cold stone making his hands ache, he wondered for the thousandth time what was to become of him. Greagoir had sent him away from his duties _for his own good_ , but he had made little effort to call him back. He knew that the Revered Mother of this small rectory sent reports back to Kinloch Hold detailing his recovery.

He was tired of allowing other people to dictate the course of his life- he still had so much to give, so much good he could do, and his potential was being wasted. 

His arms ached, and he pushed onwards. 

He needed a change. 

***

She dreamed of purple fire, as she always did. 

It started with a song, the most beautiful, alien, bone-jarring song imaginable, and as always it made her want to weep. It welled up around her in the darkness, senseless sleep turning slowly to waking dream, and the song of the Archdemon would call her upwards towards her greatest nightmare yet again. 

The world was aflame, collapsing and burning and rotting and dying. The purple fire, where it touched living flesh, caused it to wither and seethe and turn to dust and pus. She stood in helpless frozen horror as the flames fell upon a legion of men and women in the colours of Gwaren, their screams cut short as their flesh turned to ash beneath the sweep of the flames. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to call a warning to a caravan of refugees, but the fire fell upon them and drowned out her cries, their bodies illuminated for a brief and horrible moment amid the deathly purple flames. 

The fields of battle were indistinct, unclear- the world around her was putrefying and dying, the taint devouring all goodness and life as the Blight seethed onwards unchecked. She thought she heard the voices of her loved ones, her dear friends, but their calls to her were swallowed up the instant she turned towards the sound.

She fought, because it was the only thing she could do- even as the mighty dragon came about in the sky and turned languidly towards her, its bulk blocking out what sickly light still managed to seep through the diseased storm clouds. In shadow she stood, watching as the column of fiery death swept towards her-

And the fire passed over her, as it always did, until she was alone in the field. Alone, forced to endure the death of everything she held dear, exhausted and screaming as the darkspawn crept closer in an unending wave. She fought them off with ice and fire, the bodies growing thick around her, but still they came; a sword nicked close to her ribs, and a daggers slashed across the back of her thigh. An arrow lodged in her shoulder, and all around her the darkness grew closer, the song screeching in her mind like a terrible beautiful cacophony. 

She fell to her knees, and the dragon stood above her, its terrible, putrid maw slowly opening as it sucked in a breath-

-and Penny woke, as she always did, tears soaking her pillow and her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, not quite sobs and not quite panic but somewhere close to both. 

She fumbled up to a sitting position, the roars still echoing in her ears even as her blood still raced in horror and desire. The song was gone now, the Archdemon dead and cold, but still the melody whispered through her memories when she let her guard down, when she dreamed. 

Beside her, Leliana dreamed on, oblivious to her predicament. It was still dark outside, the gloomy murk when the stars had given up their roosts for the night but the sun had not yet come to claim their place. The world was still and silent, everyone in deep slumber, and as her heart settled back into a normal rhythm she envied them for that. 

Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, she eased herself towards the edge of the bed, extracting herself from Leliana’s gentle grasp as her lover mumbled sleepily but otherwise did not stir. Her hands were shaking as she reached for her robe, and after three attempts she gave up trying to tie it at the front; it wasn’t like she was expecting company at this hour, after all, and the frustration of trying to make her fingers work was bringing her close to tears. 

She shuffled over to the window, using her sleeve to wipe away the frost from the glass so that she could see outside. The world beyond Redcliffe castle was quiet, the sky dark and the lake even darker- she could not see Kinloch Hold from here, but she fancied it was there, a faint shape against the skyline with pricks of light like stars illuminating it from inside. 

There were a few lights along the shore of the lake, where Redcliffe itself sat nestled in the lee of the castle, proof of the life that had clung tenaciously in the face of the immense evil of the Blight. Seeing those lights settled her nerves- here was what she had fought for, here was what she had sacrificed so much for, to see life continue onwards without fear. 

She sank into the seat by the window, wrapping the robe tightly around her against the chill, and tried her best to reassure herself that her nightmares were a worthy price to pay.

She sat there long enough that the sky in the east began to colour with the first hint of dawn, and eventually there was movement behind her, the sleepy murmurs of confusion that was accompanied by the rustling of sheets. She glanced over her shoulder to see Leliana struggling to sit up, blinking owlishly in the gloomy early morning light, her hair mussed so adorably from sleep. The sight made her smile, despite her mood, and she felt the grief lifting slightly. 

Leliana yawned widely, covering her mouth with her hand. “Bad dreams again, my love?” she asked, her voice croaky and sleep slurred. At Penny’s silent nod, she crawled towards the edge of the bed and padded barefoot across the room to her, coming up behind her and kissing her softly on the top of her head. “You should have woken me.”

Penny reached up behind her and took Leliana’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “You need your sleep just as much as I, dear heart,” she said quietly, pressing her face into Leliana’s palm. 

“My desire for sleep does not outweigh my desire to care for you,” Leliana said softly, a hint of scolding in her tone. “Was it a warden dream, or just a nightmare?”

Shivering, Penny squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that had sprung up anew. “It’s only stress,” she whispered, not even convincing herself with the lie. “Just stress.”

The arrangements were too far in motion for her to protest them now, as much as her heart ached for it. If they still desired her to lead the Wardens in Ferelden, she would happily do so from the relative quiet and sanctuary of Soldier’s Peak, away from the stress and pomposity of the political circle. But instead she was bound for Amaranthine, not just a Commander but an Arlessa too.

She was not sure how she felt about that. 

There was still time, of course, to slip away. The idea of doing so permanently called to her like a siren’s song, to vanish into the night and find her own path, a place to breath and live and laugh without the world watching over her shoulder and judging her every move and mistake. But she could not bring herself to make such a cowardly move- not when there were people still depending on her. 

She could vanish for a time, however. Slip away to somewhere quiet, somewhere to recover her spirits and relax before the world of politics and civic leadership consumed her. The thought was like a drug. 

Leliana sighed, running her fingers through her hair, lulling her back towards sleep. “There was an old rectory,” she said slowly, the beginning of another of her tales. “It was only slightly larger than a private residence, perhaps only half a dozen brothers and sisters of the cloister in attendance at any one time. It was up on the coast, locked between the mountains and the sea, a perfect little pocket of isolation and quiet.”

Penny sniffed, trying to wipe her eyes clear without moving away from Leliana’s calming fingers. 

“It was after I- after what happened with Marjolaine,” her voice wobbled for a moment, “and I was making my way back to Denerim. I spent a night there, trying to come to terms with what I had been through, what she had done to me- and I found such peace within those walls, at a time when I was most heartbroken and in need of such peace.”

“But you lived in the cloister in Lothering.”

“I did- the rectory was too close to where I had last faced Marjolaine, and I feared her following me. I needed to find my place with the Maker, and I knew I could not do so when I was looking over my shoulder every day, expecting to find her there.”

Penny turned slightly in the chair, her head resting against Leliana’s chest; beneath the soft swell of her breast, she could feel the gentle _thud-thud_ of her heart. That, more than anything, soothed her. “You think I should go there,” she said, not so much a question as a statement.

“It is less than a full day’s ride from the Peak, so if there were any urgent need for you, you would not be so far out of the way. And I think it would do you good, to get away from this... _attention_.” 

Penny couldn’t help herself, laughing weakly. “You wanted to say something worse,” she said.

Leliana made a soft noise, like a huffed breath masquerading as a laugh. “I have a great many things I wish to say about the expectations heaped on you,” she confessed, “and I understand your desire for peace, my love. Your heart is weary, and you have not had time to heal as you should.”

Closing her eyes as she listened to her heartbeat, Penny breathed in the scent of her, wanting nothing more than to just sink into the warmth and the safety of her, as if she could escape it all in her arms. But Leliana was right, as she so often was. “What was this place called?”

“Greenfell. It is small, but they had the capacity to take in travellers when I passed through years ago. I would not imagine that a great deal has changed.”

She didn’t answer, and Leliana did not press her for a response, standing beside her and stroking her hair as the room slowly brightened around them. And with the coming of the sun, she came to a decision.

She really _did_ need a change.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been raining all morning, nothing more than a light drizzle, but it was accompanied by a cold wind from the sea and the two combined to make an otherwise dull morning uncomfortable. If it hadn’t been for the wind, he would have happily gone about his morning drills in the courtyard; a little rain was nothing to him, after all. But the wind held just enough of a bite to leave his skin aching and his teeth clattering. 

Which left him for an unpleasant day trapped within the walls, brooding over self contemplation and the uneasy prospect of his future. His impatience had finally gotten the better of him a week ago, and he had penned a letter to Greagoir expressing his frustration at this endless state of limbo. If he was to be discharged from his duties and sent away in quiet disgrace, he would rather know now instead of just stagnating.

He had of course expressed his desire to continue on with his duties- he still had a great deal to offer the order, he felt, and in the crisis that had befallen Kinloch Hold months before he knew that every soldier was desperately needed. Even more so now that the Blight had culled the field of potential recruits.

And if Greagoir would not take him back, then have them send him to Jainen. A smaller Circle, fewer charges- if they worried over his ability to perform his duties adequately, he would work his way up from the bottom again. All he knew was that he could not simply sit here, slowing dissolving into uselessness and despair, forgotten and unneeded and unwanted. 

He was still _useful_ , Maker damn them all. 

The rectory had a large kitchen where the cloistered brothers and sisters took their meals together, and it was here that he had spent his morning, huddling close to the fire as if the warmth therein would ease the ache in his bones. The elderly Sister Margreaves- _not a Mother_ , she’d corrected him with a chuckle the first night he arrived- who was responsible for most of their meals had taken pity on him as he sulked by the window, staring moodily out into the rain, and had assigned him to the duty of potato peeling. It was relatively mindless work, but it kept his hands busy and made the hours pass and for that he was grateful.

He could have gone to the tiny chapel, but the cold seemed embedded in the stone, and if he sat in the silence for too long his hands would start shaking and his head would start aching and the demons in his heart would start clamouring for release. His faith had been tested sorely enough this past year- he did not like to spend too long alone with the company of his own thoughts, obsessing over his failures and wondering which ones counted as sins.

He had stood in judgement of himself far too many times over the last few months; he could not handle the agony and the despair of feeling the Maker’s judgement against him too.

So it was that he found himself toiling over the honest work of potato peeling, a rather bland way to spend a morning, but necessary for the sake of his own sanity. He might have scoffed at the idea a year ago- mere kitchen duties!- but now found comfort in the simplicity of it. Taking part in the small rituals of the rectory had been far more soothing than he had expected when he first arrived; it had given him perspective, and a greater appreciation for the little things that went into the needs and provisions of place like a Circle tower.

Granted, there was a substantial difference between the needs of the eight folk who called Greenfell home, and the dozens of mages, templars and children who inhabited Kinloch Hold, but the principle was the same. 

He looked up from where he was patiently peeling the seemingly endless pile of potatoes when a gust of wind snuck in through the door on the heels of Sister Calwyn. The young woman was a little eccentric- vastly uncomfortable around people, she still refused to make eye contact with him when she attempted to speak with him, even after all these months. She was clutching a sodden piece of parchment to her chest, the water slowly staining the front of her robes. 

Sister Margreaves looked up from where she was gutting a fish, hands sticky with gore and flecked with scales. “Get that door closed, Calwyn, or we’ll be eating cold bits for lunch today,” she scolded, gesturing towards the door with her fish knife. “If the fire goes out in the hearth, I don’t fancy trying to get it going again.”

Eyes wide with dismay at the reprimand, the young priestess rushed to comply, the heavy door slamming shut with more force than was entirely necessary. She glanced his way only once, her gaze skittering away just as quickly once she realized he was watching, before she scurried over to Margreaves. “We’ve company on the way,” she said somewhat breathlessly, thrusting the damp piece of paper into her line of sight.

At that, Cullen perked up noticeably. Visitors to Greenfell were few and far between- in the months he had been here, he’d only seen two others stay for more than a night. The weekly cart from the Greenfell hamlet was their only other diversion and source of news, and it wasn’t due for another two days. Was it possible that Greagoir had responded to his missive so quickly? 

Was he finally going to be free of this relentless monotony? 

Margreaves frowned as she stared down at the letter in Calwyn’s shaking hands, lifting the knife to follow along the lines of the script; her mouth moved silently as she read the letter to herself, the knot between her eyes slowly easing as her eyes widened instead. “Where’d this come from?” she asked, her shock evident in her voice. 

Calwyn was all but hopping from foot to foot. “It came in on a bird- we’d’ve missed it altogether if it hadn’t made such a ruckus in the chapel, squawking and carrying on while the Revered Mother was readying the morning Chant. Weren’t expecting it, see.”

Cullen’s interest grew further, and he set down his peeling knife on the table, making no effort to hide his curiosity now. There was a ruthless swell of victory in his belly, a fire that made him want to clench his fists and laugh in triumph- it had to be Greagoir, or someone come to fetch him on Greagoir’s behalf. His pleas had finally reached through to his Commander, and he would be free of this wretched limbo, free to be active and useful and decisive again. 

The elderly sister chewed anxiously on her lip as she perused the letter, and then she glanced in his direction. “You’d best be on your way, messere,” she said, making a shooing motion with the knife. “You’ve done a good job on them spuds, but I’ve got work to do for supper now.”

He sat up straighter, unable to help the surge of happiness in him. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can-”

“Be off with you, messere Cullen. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than mope around my kitchen all day.”

It was all the confirmation he needed- Greagoir was indeed sending someone for him. 

_Finally._

He waited impatiently for the hours to tick by, uncertain of when they were expecting their mysterious guest. He was not a member of this cloister, and the Revered Mother apparently felt no need to share with him the news of the imminent arrival; neither did his attempts at eavesdropping throughout the noon meal uncover anything useful. 

Should he pack his things? He’d only had a meagre selection of personal items to begin with, and he’d lost most of those in the uprising and the chaos that followed; it wasn’t like it would take him long to prepare himself for travel, but would it impress upon his superiors all the better if he greeted them with this armour bound for the journey and his sword freshly tended to? 

He could scarcely concentrate for the rest of the afternoon, jittery and unsettled, his frustrations hissing and seething just beneath his skin in an anger he could not dare to express. He chose to forgo his scheduled exercise- he liked to run along the cliffs in the afternoons, trying to build back his stamina and his endurance, running until the cold winds made tears stream from his eyes and the air in his lungs burned and his legs seemed ready to collapse into jelly. 

It would have been good to run today, to give him an outlet for the nervous energy building in him, but he could not bring himself to risk leaving before the visitor arrived. He had no intention of staying any longer than he had to, and Maker willing he could convince whoever it was coming to collect him that it was in their best interest to turn around and leave immediately.

Imagine that- free and gone by the evening. He flexed his hands at his sides, hearing the crack of his knuckles even over the endless drizzle of the rain on the window panes.

The sun made an attempt to break through the clouds sometime towards sunset, murky gold beams dotting the landscape and bouncing almost painfully off the puddles of water around the courtyard. Cullen was lurking in the waterlogged courtyard- he was not so proud that he would deny his desperation to be away from this place- and when there was a call from the gate that a rider was visible on the long road up towards the rectory, he hissed out an impatient breath, tapping his fingers against the stone walls as a means to channel his nervous energy. 

The Revered Mother- a woman of middling years who had been polite to him, if not precisely friendly- emerged from the chapel, clearly with the same intent as him. She frowned when she spotted him, but she did not scold him; he was not one of the cloistered folk, and as grateful as he was to her for allowing him to stay all this time, she was not his superior. She knew it too, for although she scowled in his direction, she turned back towards the gate, clasping her hands in front of her as she waited for their guest to arrive. 

At the clang of metal-shod hoofbeats on the cobbled path up the final few yards, Cullen’s heart leapt in his chest. The gate swung open, pushed aside by Lay Sister Maria, a tiny wisp of a girl who could scarcely have been more than fifteen and who was vastly outmatched by the gate; only the bluster of the wind saved her from embarrassment, and even then she stumbled as the heavy wooden gate almost lurched out of her grip.

The rider came into view, cloaked in red and with her face hidden from view by the hood she had tugged down against the wind. That gave Cullen pause, for he had expected someone in the armour of the Order, and for the first time since that morning doubt began to creep through his veins. 

Brother Timmons stepped forward to hold the reins of the horse while the rider murmured her thanks; Cullen could not hear her voice at this distance, but something in her movements and the way she held herself made his blood turn to ice and his stomach plummet into his shoes. 

It couldn’t- _she wouldn’t..._

The horse held steady as she swung a leg over the saddle and dropped lightly to the ground, her deep red cloak billowing around her as the wind caught it. She reached up with brown hands that he remembered so well, remembered precisely how gentle those fingers had been when they’d reached nervously to cup his cheek, and pushed back her hood, her dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders.

“No,” he said, the sound barely more than a croak. 

The sunlight was golden around her, like the Maker himself favoured her- Penny Amell, Hero of Ferelden, the grand saviour of them all, and the woman whose face the demons wore when they dragged him down into the darkest parts of his own heart. 

He was shaking, his hands clenched in fists at his side, and the ice in his veins melted under the torrent of heat and anger that surged through him instead. 

“ _No_.”

***

Penny was exhausted- the journey from Redcliffe hadn’t been particularly taxing, but she’d worked hard to avoid the larger towns along the route, afraid of being recognised. It wasn’t that she was afraid of being caught sneaking away, because she definitely wasn’t; the thought of endless crowds of people cheering and shouting, jostling to get closer to her, shoving and touching and pressing her in, eager to see the great Warden Commander...

The thought alone was enough to make her heart race in a panic and her lip to tremble as she fought to breathe properly. There was a part of her that was delighted with the happiness she had brought to the people of Ferelden, but that part was small indeed. The last few months since the end of the Blight had been emotionally taxing in a way she had not anticipated in her wildest dreams- she was not cut out to be a hero, it seemed, or at least not the sort of hero the people wanted her to be. 

She was not good at grand speeches, or at being the centre of attention, and it seemed that that was all anyone wanted of her these days. The common folk wanted her blessing, for their children and their crops and their flocks and whatever else they could shove under her nose; the Bannorn wanted her favour, exactly the same as the people they ruled, but with more political weight attached to the blessing. The Wardens were tugging at her, hoping to capitalise on this rare opportunity in Amaranthine. Everyone wanted her opinion, her loyalty, her voice added to their cause, and she was still so bewildered and exhausted by it all. 

For who was she, really? A frightened young woman who still stuttered when the pressure got too much for her, who broke down into tears when she struggled to make herself understood in a conversation. That kings and commoners alike would seek her counsel was more frightening than it was exhilarating. 

The mayor of Greenfell hamlet had been most effusive when she’d arrived, talking over all of her objections and insisting that she simply _had_ to stay for the night, so that they could properly honour her. It had taken everything from her to extract herself from his overeager attentions without bursting into tears, and she wanted nothing more than to take her supper in the quiet of her own room and hope that the good folk of the rectory would respect her desperate need for solitude. 

She managed not to stumble as she dismounted- that was quite a plus for her!- and shook her head to loosen some of the raindrops that had made their way beneath her hood on the ride. The Brother who had helped her led her horse away as a woman in the robes of a Revered Mother stepped closer, a welcoming smile on her face as she nodded in greeting. 

Penny smiled in return, weary but still pleased by the solitude of the rectory. It was just as Leliana had assured her. 

She took a deep breath, relaxing.

“ _No!_ ”

At the shout, she froze immediately, and she saw the way the Revered Mother’s face dropped into a darkened scowl. That did not matter, however, because Penny recognised that voice- she would recognise it anywhere, no matter how much time and hurt might have passed between them. 

Her breath was trapped in her chest as she slowly turned towards the speaker, and when she saw Cullen standing beneath the stone archway the air escaped from her in a soft gasp, almost a sob. She swayed, the blood rushing from her head as she fought off a faint. 

He was tense, his entire body wound so tight that he looked like he might explode any moment now. There were dark circles under his eyes that had not been there a year earlier, and the softness of youth had gone from him completely. He was only hard lines and sharp angles, and the look on his face made her feel as if he felt her personally responsible for the Maker’s absence in the world.

“Cullen?” she whispered, barely trusting herself to speak. _Maker_ , but what was he doing here, of all places?

“Is this a joke?” he snarled, advancing on her far too quickly. Penny squeaked in alarm and skittered backwards a few steps, confused and frightened by the look in his eyes. Granted, they had not parted on the best of terms, but what had happened to justify this darkness in him? “Has the great Hero come to laugh at how far her watcher has fallen? Come to gloat, have you?”

Panic seized her by the throat, strangling each word as they tried to escape. “Wh-what are y-you talking about?” she said, tears already pricking at her eyes. “Wh-what are you even d-doing here?”

Where was the boy she had quietly loved from a distance? Who was this violent, broken man in his place, so full of hurt and hate, so determined to push that hurt onto others? 

“Do you expect me to believe you didn’t _know_ I was here?” he asked condescendingly. “That this was all some _awkward_ coincidence?”

Penny’s spine turned to steel, and even though her lip quivered and there were tears on her cheeks, she straightened her shoulders. “How d-dare you!” she stammered, jabbing a finger in the direction of his chest. “I am m-many things, Cullen, b-but I would _n-never_ delight in the misfortune of another. How could you think so p-poorly of me?” 

“How could I? What of you- shunning my advice and my pleas no matter how I begged, and then to leave me condemned, a blight against the legacy of the _wonderful_ Penny Amell-”

“Ser Cullen!” The Revered Mother’s voice boomed around the small courtyard, sharp as a sword. “You disgrace yourself!”

Cullen reeled back as if he’d been struck, his lip curled back in a sneer as his gaze flickered from Penny to the Revered Mother and back again. There was something almost manic in him, his pain so wild and immense that he was near to feverish from it. She could feel it radiating from him, a monstrous anger that she had no words to describe, only the knowledge that it frightened her as greatly as it grieved her. 

There had been such gentleness in him once; she knew he had suffered during Uldred’s uprising, and she had done her best for him in the aftermath. But she had had her duties, and he’d had his- she was no more responsible for his fate and the manner in which he faced it than he was for hers. 

His pain had sunk in deeply, and had twisted him almost beyond recognition. 

“Ser Cullen, you are a _guest_ within my walls,” the Revered Mother was saying in a tone of barely restrained anger. “You have comported yourself very poorly, and the Knight Commander will hear of this behaviour.”

Cullen flinched, but his sneer did not waver. “His condemnation of me can hardly be any worse than leaving me here to rot,” he snapped, turning on his heel and stomping from the yard without so much as a backwards glance.

A stunned silence fell over the courtyard; Penny felt so light-headed that she wondered why it was that she did not simply just float away. Her entire world was reeling- not just from the fact that Cullen was here, in a place she had intended to escape to for her own sake, but that he had lost his way so badly in such a short time. 

She felt her heart crack slightly, and she blinked away tears. 

The Revered Mother sighed loudly and turned back to her. “My lady, I apologise, I had no idea-”

Penny waved away her excuses with a hand, miserable enough already without hearing a thousand platitudes and apologies heaped atop her; she did not have the energy to be grateful for them, in any case, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen as an ungrateful guest. “You weren’t to know,” she said dully, her head aching in the aftermath of the argument. “And I did not give you a great deal of notice, either. If anything, the fault is mine.”

“My lady, I’m sure-”

“It’s fine,” Penny said, a little sharper than she had intended. The Revered Mother looked surprised at her interruption, her mouth hanging open halfway through the sentence; she snapped it shut a moment later, a hint of irritation in her dark eyes. “Please, I’d rather not discuss it.”

The Revered Mother smoothed over her expression and nodded politely. “As you wish, my lady. May I show you our humble home? I am afraid we do not hold to the sort of luxuries and standards that you would be accustomed to.”

For some reason that irked her- yes, true, she was lucky enough to be pampered now that the Blight was over and she had proved her worth, but she had spent a good year sleeping in the dirt and the mud prior to that. She was no dainty Orlesian noblewoman, to faint at the sight of rough cotton sheets and lye soap. “I am just grateful for your hospitality and kindness,” Penny said instead, unable to think of anything more diplomatic to say. 

She did not offer to leave, as she ought to given Cullen’s reaction to her. Perhaps a year ago she might have scurried away like a frightened mouse, desperate to avoid confrontation and dismayed beyond all rational thought at his anger, but she was no longer the Penny of a year ago. Granted, his words had hurt her- and more than she was happy to admit, too- but she was more than the timid young girl who had offered her heart and her kisses in secret to the shy young templar.

Neither of them were who they’d once been. She was a Commander and an Arlessa, an archmage of legend, courted by kings and queens for her good favour. She had stared a corrupted god in the face and had walked away from that encounter to live and to love. 

And Cullen, well... time would only tell what he had become. 

Taking a deep breath and sniffing, the cold wind making her nose run, Penny offered a weak smile to the Revered Mother. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I would be most grateful if I could take my supper in my room this evening. Alone.”


	3. Chapter 3

He slept badly, unsurprisingly. 

Cullen wasn’t sure what was worse- that he’d allowed himself to get his hopes up so foolishly in the first place, or that the person witness to his disgrace was Penelope Amell. 

Beautiful, treacherous Penny Amell.

After storming away from the courtyard when the Revered Mother had sent him away with his tail between his legs, he’d been consumed by an anger the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in months. He’d learned a measure of control over himself in his time at Greenfell, a slow and arduous process to be sure, but he’d regained mastery over his tumultuous emotions- only for it to fly out the window at Penny’s appearance. 

So he had run- Maker take him, but he’d always been a coward. He’d ignored the soft misting rain drifting in from the sea, and he’d run, arms pumping and blood surging in his veins as he’d run to escape, to forget.

To survive. 

The cold had made his flesh ache, and the air had been painfully sharp in his lungs; the rain had collected on his bare skin and trickled beneath his collar, his clothes slowly turning to ice the more waterlogged they grew. But he kept running, because he had to run, because Penny was waiting for him back at the rectory and he did not have the emotional strength to face her anymore. 

He’d run until he stumbled, until his furious pace sent him skidding to the ground in a painful collision of torn grass and upturned earth and exhausted limbs. The impact knocked the wind from him, a shallow gash blooming hot along his forearm where he’d put his hand out to cushion his fall. And as he lay panting on the damp grass the anger had bubbled up and out of him; the uneasy rumble within him had become a shout, and then he was howling wordlessly at the sky, tearing up clumps of earth and hurling it as far as he could manage, digging into the soil until his nails bled. 

Everything was wrong and nothing was right, and her arrival was so ominous- she was a catalyst, a marker for change. He had lost everything, and she had become the saviour of the world, and he shouldn’t be bitter, he shouldn’t be angry, _but Maker help him he was._

He couldn’t even lie to himself and say that the tears on his cheeks were simply rain, not when his shoulders shuddered with great heaving sobs that left his chest feeling like it was trapped in a vice. 

He was alive, when so many others more deserving of life had been taken. He had been too weak, corralled and caged like an animal, and his weakness had been the downfall of those he had sworn to protect and defend. He alone had been singled out for the demon’s games and their torment, and for so many months he had asked himself the same questions- was there a reason for the nightmarish days he had spent as their plaything? Had they picked him for any particular reason, or was it mere chance?

Better men and women than he had died in that tower, and their screams still rang in his ears when it was quiet. _Children_ had died, consumed by demons or put to the sword by his brothers-in-arms as they had all sworn to do in the event of the inevitable. So much of that horrifying time was a blur to him, days and night all an unwavering haze of a purple shimmering curtain and the blood on his hands. 

He had seen flesh ripple and pucker, bulging outwards as tissue corrupted and expanded, magic and sin working as one to snatch all sign of humanity from within them all.

Except him. 

And she had come to him then as she had come to him now- tall and proud and quiet in her defiance, her shadow falling over him as he cowered bloodied and feverish and hysterical. How many days, how many weeks? Had he slept once in that time, and why so much blood? She had chosen to gamble their lives, ignoring his pleas, more willing to risk their souls than to take his advice.

Now he was a broken man, denied the only path that made him feel any sense of self worth, alone and angry and condemned to fade into obscurity, kept company only by his nightmares. 

Except that Penny was here again, her mere presence poking open old scabs that he had begun to hope had healed over. And Maker help him, but he still loved her.

More the fool was he.

When the light had begun to fade he’d crawled to his knees, wincing as his frozen muscles cramped in protest. He’d run so far along the coast that the rectory was nowhere in sight, and he’d been far too weary to run the distance back again. Pressing a hand to the pain in his ribs, he’d begun the long limping journey back, his pride in tatters and his anger the only thing keeping him warm.

It’d been well past dark when he’d finally sighted the glow of the windows, and he’d gone straight to his room despite the growling hunger in his belly. He knew he still looked a fright, and he didn’t fancy trying to keep his temper should the Revered Mother corner him and demand he apologise to Penny for his earlier tantrum- nor did he want to find himself seated across the table from Penny for the duration of dinner. So he’d slunk back to his room, avoiding the warmth and the light of the kitchen where the sound of conversation could be heard drifting along the portico, and he’d cleaned himself up as best as he could in his room and gone to bed hungry. 

It was foolish to hope that his physical exhaustion would help push him into a dreamless sleep- it had never worked once in the last few months, so why would now be any different? Especially now, with his heart in more turmoil than it had been since the day he’d looked up to see her staring down at him through the purple haze.

So he’d slept badly, struggling with the nightmares, and he’d lain in bed staring at the ceiling as the room slowly brightened with the coming of the morning. 

Rubbing the grit from his eyes- not that it did any good, they still burned as if he had thrown sand into his face- he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring at his hands as they hung between his knees. The edges of his nails were dark and ragged, whether from dirt he had not scoured away properly or from blood from his continued abuse of them, he could not say. It was a stark metaphor for his life in general- ragged and ruined, stained by events that he did not want to examine too closely, a reminder of violence and pain and anger. 

His joints popped and cracked as he climbed to his feet, a chastisement at the punishment he had put it through the night before. His stomach growled in warning, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s noonday meal. Weary and light-headed, he gritted his teeth and went about his morning ablutions as he would any other day. When he felt like he was some vague approximation of presentable he steeled himself and stepped outside, ready to be faced with a barrage of scolding and filthy glances. 

Luck was with him, however, and the courtyard was empty for the moment. The faint scent of breakfast wafted on the breeze, and as he wandered towards the kitchen he could see Calwyn and Maria working in the vegetable garden, chatting merrily to one another and oblivious to his passing. As he drew closer to the kitchen his stomach growled in approval, but a quick glance through the window showed both Margreaves and the Revered Mother inside, Margreaves busy at work by the fire and the Mother cradling a steaming mug in front of her.

He wasn’t in the mood to sit and receive the tongue lashing the two of them would likely inflict on him, so instead he reversed his steps and headed back into the courtyard. On the opposite side of the small square sat the chapel, a tiny little chantry that served the purposes of the rectory well enough, even if it was hardly large enough for a dozen people. 

The door was open, as it often was on days with good weather, and he found himself drawn towards it.

There was a modest statue of Andraste at the front of the tiny chapel, barely taller than he was even with the pedestal upon which it sat, and before it rested a shallow copper brazier on a smaller pillar of marble. Within it burned a merry little fire, a mimicry of the Eternal Flame in Val Royeaux and reminder of the relationship between the Chantry and the Circles throughout Thedas- no doubt this flame was the result of nothing more than a flame rune in the bowl of the brazier, because Greenfell had no mages to tend to the fire. 

Or so that had been the case until yesterday. He hesitated in the doorway as he spotted Penny seated in the first pew, her head bowed as if in prayer; he had sought her out with the intention of confronting her, but in that moment his determination wavered.

How many times had they met in the chapel hall in the Circle, as discreet as they could be in such an environment, but taking strength simply in the presence of the other, invigorating their faith not just in each other but in the Maker too? How many times had such a scene caused his heart to leap happily, just knowing that she had risked the gossip of her peers and the warnings of her teachers by choosing to sit in silence with him in a shared acknowledgement of their faith? 

For a moment his anger faded to naught, and in its place he felt such a desperate yearning- gone were the watchful eyes and mocking tongues of Kinloch Hold, and it was just the two of them. There was nothing to stop him from walking up beside her and kneeling at her feet, from burying his face against her stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair and whispered forgiveness and love to him. 

Nothing but his pride, and the anger that burned within him like his own personal eternal flame.

His hands closed into fists at his sides, and he stalked down the centre aisle towards the front of the chantry, making no effort to hide his footsteps. He saw the moment she realised she was not alone, the way her shoulders flinched and hunched forward in a flicker of fear before she corrected herself, but the tension did not leave her. 

She had clearly guessed it was him, for she did not look up as he walked past her, but her jaw was set so firmly that he could tell she was gritting her teeth. Dropping into the pew on the other side of the aisle to her, he stared across at her, waiting to see if she would acknowledge him at all. 

When a few moments passed with not even a glance in his direction, he said “What, not even a hello?” 

She bared her teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as if she was fighting for control of her temper. She had a stack of parchment on the pew next to her, as well as an inkpot, and she was balancing a sheet over her knees as she slowly wrote out a list of what looked like names. The scratching of the quill nib over the rough paper was the only sound for a few seconds, before she took a deep breath and said “What do you _want_ , Cullen?”

“I suppose I’m wondering the same thing,” he said, watching her write. “What you want, that is.”

“Right now, I’d appreciate being left alone,” she said sharply, setting down her quill and standing, approaching the brazier and easing the entire sheet of parchment into the flames. There was a look on her face of old, dull pain- like she’d endured it for so long that the ache was familiar and she’d learned how best to suffer through it. She still didn’t look at him, instead watching the flames as they licked along the edges of the paper and slowly consumed it. 

Curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward. “What are you doing?”

Penny sighed, bowing her head. “Names of the dead,” she said wearily. “As many as I can remember- because they deserve to be remembered, if nothing else.”

It was the sort of gentle kindness he remembered of her, and for some reason it hurt him even more; here she was, grieving for strangers, when she had barely acknowledged what he had endured? 

“If only you could offer the same respect to the living,” he said caustically, unable to keep the sneer from his voice.

His words landed like daggers; she visibly shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut as if in pain, and her lips trembled as if she was trying to hold in a sob. “I do not know what you want me to say, Cullen,” she whispered finally. 

“Perhaps you could start with an apology? For disrupting my refuge?”

“I didn’t even know you were _here_ ,” she said, her hands clenched at her sides even though her chin quivered with the threat of tears. She’d always been quiet, quick to avoid a confrontation wherever possible- their tentative courtship had always been about quiet, shared moments, a tiny sliver of solitude and sanctuary found in one another’s arms. She was struggling, clearly, but she did not back down from him, meeting his anger with her own. “As far as I knew, you were still at Kinloch Hold- why would I possibly believe you would be anywhere _but_ the tower, when they were so desperate for soldiers that Greagoir would not even spare a single man for the war?”

“And yet you ask me to believe that your coming here was a coincidence?”

She made a frustrated, angry noise, stomping a foot against the ground. “You seem determined to b-believe what you w-want!” she snapped, the first tears spilling over. “I can only tell you that I had n-no idea you were here, and that I’m sorry for what you endured-”

“You’re _sorry?_ ” he snarled, the anger building in him again. “You were the one who _left_ me alone in that tower, expecting me to turn and smile and work with the very same mages who had spent weeks torturing me and killing my comrades!”

“Oh Maker, d-don’t _lie_ to me, Cullen! You can lie to yourself if it helps you to heal, but I d-did n-no such thing- the mages that hurt you are _dead_ , I made sure of that, and I objected to your feverish need to kill what remained of my family, as it were, because your trauma and your paranoia demanded it.”

The words were out before he could stop himself. “Was I not worthy of the same consideration as them?” he said. “But, then again, I suppose I was just a templar. Just another- what do you mages call us? Just another suit. Nothing special.”

She reeled back as if he had struck her, the pain in her eyes so raw that he almost fell to his knees and begged her forgiveness then and there. 

Almost, but not quite. 

After a moment, the pain changed, morphing into something ugly and wild as she straightened her shoulders and faced him. “I’m sorry my decision has h-hurt you so, Cullen,” she said, tears on her cheeks but her face set into a visage of fury that actually made him take a step backwards in alarm. “But if I had st-stopped to consider the feelings of every person I came across in Ferelden, the Blight would have consumed us all long ago. Your feelings were a suitable price to pay for our survival.”

It was like his heart was breaking anew. “How magnanimous of you,” he choked, “making that decision on my behalf.”

There was nothing in her eyes as she drew herself upright, no joy and no kindness- no sign of the gentle young woman he’d loved a year ago. “Count yourself lucky that such decisions are not a weight against your soul,” she stuttered, tears flowing freely. “Only I have to atone for the sins I have committed in the names of others.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond, sweeping past him and leaving him in the silence, with only the crackling of the Eternal Flame as company as it finally devoured the last of the parchment. 

***

She broke free of the nightmare with a gasp, and in her panicked state she nearly tumbled from the bed in confusion. She was so light-headed that the room was spinning, and worse than that she didn’t even _recognise_ the room; she was panting, lurching this way and that as she sought for something familiar in the madness.

_There_. On the bedside cabinet, faintly illuminated by the dying fire, was her locket. She all but threw herself across the bed towards it, fumbling with shaking fingers to prise it apart. 

The scent of Andraste’s grace broke through her panic, and she took a deep shuddering breath as she clutched the open locket to her chest. The dried flower immediately conjured memories of Leliana, the way she held her after a nightmare, the way she smiled at her when no one else was looking, the way her kisses felt in the spot just behind her ear. Slowly, the terror bled out of her veins, memories of blood and fire and pain gradually retreating in the wake of happier thoughts. She was shaking, exhausted by it all, and by the time she finally opened her eyes again she was definitely not in any frame of mind to sleep again.

Penny took a shuddering breath, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her head ached dully, and she was soaked in sweat, her skin uncomfortably clammy to the touch. Whimpering, tears trickling down her face now that the adrenalin had faded, she crawled to the edge of the bed and eased her feet down to the floor, wincing at the sharp cold of the flagstones. 

She tugged the sodden nightgown up over her head, tossing it into the corner and shivering against the chill that brushed over her bare skin. She rubbed one hand over her stomach as she dug around in her travel bag for another robe, hopping from foot to foot to stop the cold of the stones from seeping up into her toes. 

Retrieving a suitable slip for sleeping in, she nudged her feet into her boots- no point in doing up the laces, she just wanted to avoid the cold. She wasn’t really concerned with her appearance at this hour of the night, but she did stop to hook the locket around her neck, pausing to touch her fingers to it reverentially. Leliana could always get her through the worst of times. 

Her thicker bathing robe had been tossed over the back of the desk chair, and she stopped to bundle herself up in it before easing open the door to her room. A wall of cold greeted her as she stepped outside, mist hanging thickly in the courtyard as she shivered violently and pulled the door closed behind her as quietly as she could. The rectory was silent as a grave, for which she was profoundly grateful- not that she’d been expecting to run into anyone at this hour, but it was still a relief. 

Tucking her hands deep inside the robe to guard them against the chill, she shuffled awkwardly along the portico towards the kitchen. The night was still, not even a breeze to shift the mist, and it swirled around her ankles as she walked. It was peaceful, but eerie- the deep cold and the heavy fog reminded her of Redcliffe under demonic influence. Granted, there had been plenty of occasions since she had broken the demon’s hold that the lake had been shrouded in mist, but some images were just burned into her mind forever.

The memory of the undead staggering out of the fog, dripping with scum from the lakebed, was one that was going to haunt her for the rest of her life. 

She shivered and glanced over her shoulder, but no maddened spirits lunged at her from the mist, no clacking bones held together by will alone came hissing and crunching up from the coast. 

She was alone, with only her overactive imagination for company. 

The kitchen was dark, but not like pitch; the fire had been banked some hours earlier, and the embers glowed red and sullen in the hearth, pushed right to the back of the stone. It was enough light to see by as she eased open the door, grateful that it did not creak, and let herself inside. 

On her worst nights in the camp, Alistair had always sat by her with an offer of tea- he never needed to ask what had disturbed her, never prodded at her to explain or to describe the horrors she had witnessed in her sleep. The weary smile he gave her as he distracted her with silly stories reminded her that he was no stranger to the dreams either, but his kindness had done so much for her in the first few months, when she had struggled with the burden of leadership and the unfamiliarities of war. 

She associated tea with those nights, with comfort and friendship and kindness, and whenever she had particularly bad nights, she’d always resorted to a hot mug to help her relax and attempt to sleep again. She didn’t think that any of the Lay folk would object to her making use of the kitchen at such a late hour- they’d been so kind to her so far, so accommodating in all of her peculiar requests for solitude and privacy. 

Picking up the iron poker, she stabbed into the heart of the embers, a small shower of red sparks flying into the air at her intrusion. There was a giant black kettle sitting on the stone beside the hearth, and checking to see that it still had water within it, she hefted it onto the hook and pushed it out over the embers to heat up. 

“The milk is in the cold box,” came a voice behind her, and Penny shrieked, clamping a hand over her mouth as she spun about in a clumsy circle. Magic rose unbidden within her, the air around her crackling with unspent energy. A year of frayed nerves and violent dreams had not left her with the right temperament to be surprised in the dead of night when she assumed herself to be alone. 

But at the table by the window, eyebrows raised at her terrified reaction, was Cullen- only Cullen. Hiccuping on a breath and heart hammering in her throat, Penny very hesitantly lowered her hands, the delicate sparks in the air around her wisping away to nothing. 

He looked like the mess that she felt like- his hair was wildly dishevelled, and there were dark circles under his eyes, not helped by the gloomy red light from the dying fire. He was shirtless, hunched forward over the table, clutching a mug between his hands so tight that she could see the strain in his wrists from here. 

“Were cold boxes a particular devious form of darkspawn subterfuge throughout the Blight?” he asked, something unkind in his voice. “Or are you just generally jumpy when it comes to frosted beverages?”

Penny stiffened, her cheeks reddening; she was glad for the darkness of the room, that he could not see her embarrassment. “You startled me,” she said tartly, proud of herself for not stuttering. 

To her utter surprise, he grunted and nodded his head. “I apologize, then,” he said gruffly. “That was not my intention.”

She stared at him for a few long moments, waiting to see if there was any mockery in his face, but his expression remained the same. Finally deciding his apology was genuine, she nodded awkwardly in return. “Thank you,” she said. She felt clumsy now that she knew he was watching her, fumbling through the pantry for the sugar and then digging around in the cold box for the milk. The rune of frost glowed merrily at her, flaring in response to her magical gift, and a wave of mist spilled over the top of the box to dance around her, vanishing instantly when she stepped back towards the fire. 

“Do you do that deliberately?” he asked abruptly, his voice cutting through the painful silence. 

“Do I do what deliberately?”

“With the frost- and the flames in the Chantry this morning. Or the sunshine yesterday when you arrived. They all sort of... gravitate towards you.”

She swallowed nervously, confused by his line of questioning. “Many of the things I encountered throughout the Blight changed the nature of my magic in extraordinary ways,” she said hesitantly. “I’m... all I know is that the powers I have now are not necessarily the ones I had when I left the Circle.”

He didn’t say anything in response, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from babbling to fill the silence. Instead she turned back to making her tea, trying subtly to encourage the embers without drawing his attention to it. He didn’t try to talk, and she wasn’t even sure that he was drinking his own beverage; from the corner of her eye she saw his hunched shape, unmoving as he sat wedged up against the table. 

Finally the water boiled, and she slowly added the tea leaves and the honey and the milk, trying not to unbalance the flavours. Cullen watched her in silence, and he didn’t object when she slid into a seat opposite him. 

Penny sipped at her tea, a wave of relief washing through her as the familiar taste filled her mouth. She held back a sigh of contentment and instead glanced up at him. “What... why are you out of bed?” she asked tentatively. 

She thought he wasn’t going to answer her, but he finally said “Because it’s preferable to sleeping.” He lifted his mug and took a long swallow, even though she was certain it had to be stone cold by now. “Why are you?” 

She hesitated, wondering how much she was willing to share with him; their argument in the chantry still echoed in her head, and it was clear that whatever they had once shared had long since died. But she was lonely, and he was here now, and his question seemed genuine, if nothing else.

“Wardens... dream,” she said weakly, as if such a simple statement could describe the immensity of the horror she relived night after night. How could she explain the violence of her life, the unending trials she had faced in the last year? Words could not even begin to describe the soul-crushing beauty that was the Archdemon’s song, and the sensation of the taint in her blood wrenching at her like a fish hook whenever darkspawn drew near. Even Leliana struggled to speak eloquently when faced with the daunting task of describing the Battle of Denerim, and Penny did not have her way with words. 

She was exhausted, and she was brittle, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep and cuddle into someone else’s warmth and stop being the linchpin upon which the world rose and fell. 

She didn’t feel like a hero, and she was tired of pretending. 

Rubbing tiredly at her eyes, she said “Wardens dream, and sometimes that makes sleep a luxury, rather than a given.”

Cullen huffed out a breath, and when she glanced up at him there was a scornful look in his eyes. “Wardens hardly have the monopoly on nightmares,” he said, almost mockingly. 

His derision didn’t upset her as it might have a day ago- instead it frustrated her. “Of course,” she said, climbing to her feet, “how foolish of me to think that I might be able to confide in you the burdens I still carry. I apologise- I’ll leave you to your far superior suffering, and take my well deserved pain back to my room.”

He huffed out a breath, weariness and anger and grief blending as one. “Penny,” he said, and it occurred to her that it was the first time he’d used her name in months. 

She waited to see what else he might say, but it seemed to have used the entirety of his courage just to call out to her. She sighed, hugging her tea close to her chest. “It’s alright, Cullen,” she said, trying to pretend the words didn’t hurt her to speak aloud. “It’s best if we just stop trying.”

He didn’t call after her as she slipped out into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

With winter drawing closer, the weather took a turn for the worse, and there were fewer and fewer days when the sun made an appearance. It surprised him, in a way, because he had thought that in journeying north to the coast he would experience better weather than they endured at Kinloch Hold, but the sea brewed far worse storms than the lake ever had. 

His agitation at being cooped up indoors grew daily, and on more than one occasion he chose to risk the cold and the rain just because he couldn’t abide the feeling of the walls around him. It did not matter that they never moved, that they were made of sensible grey stone and not purple light- they pressed at him from all sides, sucking the air from his lungs when he least expected it, and the cold was far preferable to suffocating, because at least if his fingers burned from cold it meant he was still alive. 

He’d seen mages turn strange after spending time in solitary confinement- flinching at loud noises, overwhelmed by the arching ceilings in some of the central chambers, refusing to travel down some of the smaller staircases. He’d pitied them at the time, but now... now that he stared at the walls for some sign of their treachery, now that his head snapped around sharply when he thought he glimpsed purple on the edge of his periphery, now that he would rather stand in the path of the icy buffeting winds of another winter storm than sit indoors waiting for the walls to crush him...

He understood those mages, now. And he hated them for that. 

Penny did not seek out his company for the next few days, and he made no effort to engage with her. They’d settled into a weary sort of awkwardness, doing their best not to acknowledge one another but for a terse smile if they passed one another in the kitchen at meal times. He did not encounter her again in the middle of the night, fragile and beautiful and adorably dishevelled in a nightgown and muddied boots, and he did not have to worry about her grief and her heartache softening his heart towards her. 

He had expected her to be different now- proud and vain and powerful, a woman who had toppled kings and slain a god. But she was still Penny, still gentle and nervous and still capable of making him want to lose entire days in her arms, breathing in the scent of her as his heart beat in time with hers. She’d moved on, she’d changed the world, and in her absence he’d come undone. 

She was a hero, and he was a disgrace. 

So it didn’t bother him when she didn’t seek his company, because it was better not to. No chance of redemption, no chance of reconciliation; if anything, he probably owed her his thanks, because more than anything her appearance had renewed his desire to leave this endless limbo and return to duties so he could redeem himself. 

But the Maker was never one to make his path easy, and he should have known better than to underestimate Penny’s capacity for forgiveness. 

It was a week after she had first arrived at the rectory, and for once the sun was shining, the world crisp and bright in the aftermath of another storm the night before. The wind was still brisk enough to sting when it gusted, but otherwise it was a splendid day, and as he stepped out of the kitchen after breakfast he had already begun to compile a list of the things he would do to take advantage of the sunshine. 

But Penny was standing patiently beneath the portico, hands clasped before her, and very clearly waiting for his appearance. 

“Cullen,” she called, before he could doubt her reason for being there or attempt to escape. “Could I have a moment of your time?”

He came to a stop in the doorway, quietly applauding her for her tactics; he almost had to wonder how many days she’d been planning her approach. She was dressed demurely in a dress that would not entirely be out of place at court in Denerim- deep red, with fine gold embroidery that flattered her figure far more than the standard apprentice robes could ever have hoped to. The outfit hinted at power and status, a subtle reminder that she stood before him not just as a mage, but as a noblewoman, beloved of the people. 

More than that, she’d approached him openly, for all the Lay folk to see them interacting, and she’d done so both modestly and in a way that he could not turn her down without causing a scene. 

She might still be shy and nervous at times, but she had learned more than a few tricks out in the world. 

He had barely been a match for her a year ago- he had no hope now. “It would be remiss of me to refuse such a request,” he said, well aware that behind him the kitchen had gone quiet. He fancied the lot of them pressed up against the door, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation. “How may I serve you?”

Penny nodded her head gratefully at him. “I wondered if you might walk with me,” she said, her tone polite and collected, not a hint of the tumultuous emotions that had consumed them in their last two conversations. She gestured out towards the coast. “The weather is good for it, for once, and I feel we have... I mean, I have things that I would like to speak of with you.”

The stumble was only minor, but for some reason it set him at ease. She was still Penny, not some master manipulator spinning lies through the air; she still had her moments, just like he did. 

Surely it hurt nothing to talk- they were both a great deal calmer now, neither of them emotionally reeling from the shock of finding themselves face to face after such a wretched parting. The pain was still there, of course, but they’d lashed out at one another repeatedly and unburdened themselves of the worst of their anger. 

Talking was the most sensible option at this point, rather than carrying on in this awkward state of avoidance. Talking would give them both the opportunity to find closure, and put all of their unhappiness to rest. 

“I would like that,” he said, and for a moment surprise flickered in her expression, as if she had expected him to disagree. “I’ll just fetch my coat.”

“Of course,” she said brightly, but she had twisted her fingers together nervously before her, as if fighting the urge to fidget. She had evidently come to him anticipating another argument, if her flustered expression was anything to go by, and his quiet acquiescence had her on the back foot. “I’ll wait for you by the gate.”

He nodded his agreement and headed towards his room, wondering at how long this calm acceptance of his would last. Already the doubts began to worm their way in, hissing and whispering like some infernal demon- questioning her motives, questioning her trustworthiness. He had been unimaginably cruel to her, and yet she continued to reach out to him? 

He could scarcely stand his own company most days, but Penny dressed like a queen and sought him out deliberately. 

His good mood somewhat soured, he dug his coat out from his trunk at the foot of his bed and batted at it in a feeble attempt to smooth out the creases, then stepped back out into the yard. 

Penny was waiting across the courtyard by the gate, just as she had promised. She was looking off towards the hills and hadn’t noticed him; for just one foolish moment, he allowed himself to drink her in, every beautiful inch of her. The red of the gown was perfect for her, bringing out a similar warmth in her brown skin, and standing in the morning sunshine with the golden embroidery catching the light she looked more like a princess than the shy young woman he’d known a year ago. 

And she glanced over at him then, her face lighting up when she spotted him, and he knew he was still hopelessly lost. 

“Shall we?” she asked warmly as he joined her.

The rectory was perched atop a hill that crumbled away towards the sea in magnificent white limestone cliffs; if he were to follow the coast for long enough, his steps would carry him to Highever, the seaside capital of the teyrnir. As it was, they were several hours away by fast horse, far longer by foot, and the green and white cliffs stretched unbroken to the horizon in both directions but for the lulls and dips in the landscape.

The isolation was delightful if you were in need of quiet in which to focus on your spiritual path, but it quickly grew frustrating when you had nothing but your own twisted thoughts for company. He’d spent a great deal of time exploring this stretch of Ferelden over the last few months, in his quest to silence the demons in his head and his heart. 

And he had caged them, to some extent, but they still prowled within him- he could hear them even now, reaching out to each errant thought and trying to lure him closer. 

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes, the rectory slowly falling away behind them as they walked; there was a gap between them that was more than physical distance, and he did not trust himself to be the one to bridge it. Besides- she had initiated this little foray, so she clearly had something specific in mind. He would not blunder ahead before she’d even had the chance to say her piece. 

“I was surprised you said yes, actually,” she said finally, speaking a little louder than normal so that she could be heard above the distant booming of the waves against the cliffs. “I spent hours practicing every argument I could think of, convinced you were going to resist me.”

“I’ve not become so uncivilised that I can’t conduct myself properly for the sake of conversation,” he said, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as they walked, amused by the way she had slowly relaxed the further they went from the peering eyes of the Lay folk. She had her hands out at her sides, running them over the occasional flower or longer blades of grass that she passed, while the wind tugged teasingly at her hair and dress. She looked like some glorious nature goddess, come to dote on the earth she loved, and he looked away when he found himself smiling fondly.

“Still, I was hardly kind to you the last we spoke,” she said. “I was prepared for you to refuse me on principal after that.”

He blinked, confused. “Penny, you cannot-” He snapped his jaw shut, corralling his sudden burst of temper. After a moment, when he judged himself calmer, he spoke again. “You have nothing to apologise for- I was churlish, and unpleasant, and I do not blame you for your reaction.”

She laughed, the sound surprising him so much that he looked sharply at her. “Do we now continue in a never ending spiral?” she asked teasingly. “Am I now to apologise for apologizing, promptly followed by you excusing me from the need to apologize, and apologizing for leaving me in a position for which I felt I had to apologize?”

Perhaps it was her smile, and perhaps it was the sound of her laughter- a sound he had missed so desperately, he realised- but Cullen found himself laughing hesitantly too, the sound rusty after months without. 

“Truly, though,” she said, her smile gentling, “I did just want to talk to you without the risk of being overheard. I feel... I feel there are a lot of things that need to be said, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to speak without fearing another scolding from the Revered Mother.”

Her reminder of the afternoon of her shocking arrival jarred at him, the laughter dying off awkwardly. There was a sour taste in his mouth instead. “I am not a misbehaving child,” he said. 

“ _Cullen_.” Her tone was firm, and after a moment he looked at her. “I did not mean it like that, and you know it.”

The wind tugged at her hair, threatening to pull it free from her braid, and she pulled it over her shoulder, fingers nimble as she pulled it apart and then rebraided it just as quickly. She patted it down, satisfied with the result, and turned back to him with a sad smile. “It broke my heart to defy you in the tower, and it crushed me to leave you when I could see how badly you were suffering.” She closed her eyes for a moment, hiding the pain in their depths. “There were few things I encountered in the entirety of the civil war and the Blight that hurt me more than seeing you in pain.”

He had not expected such immediate honesty from her, and the bluntness stole the strength from him. He stared at her, waiting for the anger, but it did not come. “You still left,” he said finally, the words little more than a croak.

She nodded, grief in her face. “I did- because what I needed to do was bigger than me, and you, and bigger than what we might have ever had together. That’s why I had to walk past you, when you begged me to annul the circle. I needed the mages more than I needed my own personal happiness”

“As if the templars could not have helped you fight the Archdemon?” 

“And what would you have done when faced with a dragon as tall as a tower and with the power to corrupt and obliterate life?” she asked, arching a brow. “I’m sure a standard mana drain would have made _all_ the difference.”

He scowled at her sarcasm.

“And more than that, you asked me to kill the only family I had ever known,” she said, a wobble in her voice. “I loved you, but you were not the only one I owed my love and my loyalty to.”

She _had_ loved him- he did not miss the way she used the past tense to describe her feelings for him. Something within him, a tiny flickering light of hope that he had scarcely realised was still there, withered and died.

“I had to make a decision, and I had to make it quickly,” she continued, unaware of the magnitude of her offhand comment. “And I will never, _ever_ forgive myself for the pain I caused you, or that you perceive my actions as a breach of your trust. If I could take your hurt as my own and spare you from what you have suffered, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

She looked at him then, and there were tears in her eyes. “I suppose, what I’m trying to say, is that I’m sorry Cullen.” She swallowed awkwardly, as if she was holding back a sob only with great difficulty. “I’m sorry for everything.”

He told himself it was the wind making his eyes water. “I’m sorry too,” he rasped.

When she turned to make the journey back to the rectory, he let her walk alone.

***

Penny found the tiny chapel quite soothing, for the most part; the Lay folk did not disturb her as she sat quietly in the first pew, and sometimes she even joined them when they sang the Chant, whispering the words to herself as she stared at her hands in her lap.

Hands that wielded magic. Hands that had taken lives. Hands that had held the blade that had saved the world from the wrath of a tainted god. 

Some small part of her had hoped that she would find some measure of confidence in her faith in an escape like this. If ever there was a time for the Maker to touch her heart with his love and swallow up her paralyzing self doubt, surely now would be the best time for it- she had done everything asked of her, given everything to live in accordance with the Chant and serve Ferelden against the Blight. 

But the peace she sought remained elusive, and her heart ached with the absence of it. 

She was alone today, the staff taking advantage of the good weather to get some work in around the grounds before more winter storms swept in. She was distracted, finding herself staring at the parchment more often than she found herself writing, and eventually she sighed and rubbed wearily at her eyes- knowing her luck, she’d probably just smeared a streak of ink across her face. She’d not expected miraculous things from her walk with Cullen this morning, but there was a tightness in her chest that had lingered since she’d returned alone. 

Truly, what had she expected? Passionate declarations of forgiveness and longing, closely followed by soul-searing kisses? Her face heated at the thought, and she was glad there was no one to see her fidget in her seat, a little light-headed at the images she suddenly conjured.

Sighing, she turned back to the parchment on her lap, trying to put such things out of her mind. Such fantasies were best left unacknowledged; best not to waste her energy on them in any capacity. 

Some things were best left in the past.

She managed to focus on her writing, filling a page and a half by the time she heard footsteps behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she stilled when she saw Cullen standing hesitantly just within the doorway, looking for all the world like a lost child. There was something in his eyes that gave her pause, not quite grief and not quite confusion and not quite fear- she did not have a name for it, and she doubted that he would be able to describe it should she ask him.

“Hello, Cullen,” she said softly.

He looked distracted. “Penny,” he began, and then faltered. 

When he did not speak again, she took pity on him; she patted the space beside her on the pew, and after a moment’s hesitation he joined her, easing tentatively into the seat. She had all her papers and inks arrayed beside her again, and her heart still ached with each new name she committed to paper, but she felt something within her ease a little at his presence. Calmer, perhaps, when her soul was slowly withering under the onslaught of the thankless task she had demanded of herself. 

For many long minutes he did not speak, but he watched her write quite openly. When he finally spoke, it was not the question she had expected of him. “How do you remember so many names?” he asked quietly, not meeting her gaze when she looked up from the page. 

She sighed. “Repetition,” she said, pain softly welling up in her chest, a slow flood determined to drown her even after all this time. “Grief. Determination. A lot of them I made note of them in my journal- I owe them remembrance, for the sacrifice they made. It is one of the central tenets of the Grey Wardens, and perhaps the one I hold most sacred.”

Cullen didn’t respond for a moment, and she thought perhaps he did not mean to. “Tell me about them,” he said instead, surprising her. 

“Beg pardon?”

“Tell me who they were,” he said. “If it’s not... too painful?”

His request surprised her, and she swallowed down the memories of all the times he had sat with her as she’d studied, she an apprentice and he a recruit, both too young and too optimistic to accept that as a mage and a templar they could never find peace together. It was a painful request, but she wagered he did not realise the direction her thoughts had taken. “It’s no trouble,” she said softly, setting her quill to the side. She took a deep breath as she smoothed out the sheet on her lap, her hands trembling slightly. 

Cullen reached out and took her hand in his, fingers twining together as they rested on his thigh. 

_Oh_ , Maker, she knew he meant well by such a gesture, but it was so much harder to rein in her emotions when he touched her with such gentle concern, even if it was only intended as a platonic gesture. 

She took another breath, trying to calm herself. “These are from my time amongst the Dalish,” she said, her voice croaking on the unspent emotion. “I... it was hard, I tried to collect as many names as possible, but even- even after I helped them, they were polite but never... friendly. Sometimes they just didn’t want to talk to me.”

Cullen didn’t speak, but she saw him nodding solemnly.

She continued. “Danyla was a Dalish woman taken by a curse,” she said, gesturing to the name at the top of one of the columns. “I was able to break the curse in time, but not before it claimed her life.”

“It’s not your fault about the curse.”

Penny paused, her fingers lingering on the name; she felt Cullen squeeze her hand slightly, and her pulse fluttered in response. “Maybe not,” she said softly. “But I still ask myself what I could have done differently- maybe if I’d sought the Dalish out sooner, the curse would never have taken her. Maybe if I’d been more confident, I would not have spent so much time trying to negotiate with the elders of the clan, and I might have been there in time to heal her. Maybe-”

“A thousand maybes will not change the fact that she is gone, Penny,” he said just as quietly. “It will only hurt you more to consider eventualities that will never come to pass.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for the swell of pain to ebb. “But I can remind myself to do better next time,” she said.

He surprised her then. “Do you have a spare piece of parchment?”

“Of course,” she said, gently removing her hand from his and turning to the supplies at her side, fishing out a clean slip and holding out the quill to him.

His hand was shaking as he touched the nib to the parchment, and there were ink splatters as he began to scratch out a series of names. She kept her hand on his knee, and after a moment found that she had absently begun to rub her thumb backwards and forwards in a soothing motion; it had come to her so naturally that she hadn’t even noticed. 

She recognised some of the names- not all of them, mind, but she could guess who they all were. Some of them were templars, some were mages. A few of them she remembered as children from the Circle, and her heart ached to see their names there and know what their presence on the list meant. 

His writing grew shakier, until the names were all but illegible, and when he made a choking noise she glanced up at his face, letting out a small gasp to see his eyes squeezed tightly shut while tears ran down his cheeks. 

“Cullen,” she said gently, feeling her own eyes burning as she took the paper from his hand and set it aside, reaching up to cradle his face between her hands. “You need not do this.”

He didn’t answer- perhaps he couldn’t- but his shoulders shook from the force of the sobs he was trying to hold within him, and she could feel his jaw working beneath her hands as he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out again. 

Her heart broke.

“Cullen,” she whispered, pulling firmly on his arm until he turned to face her, resisting at first but finally collapsing against her, his face pressed into her shoulder as she opened her arms to him. He shook violently, his tears hot as they soaked through her gown, but she did not care, only whispering softly to him as she ran her hands along his back in gentle circles. 

He cried as if he had been holding it in for an eternity, until she was certain he was likely to make himself sick from it. And when he was calm again, she stood and put his list in the brazier for him.

She could not take his pain from him- but she could help him carry it.


	5. Chapter 5

It was easier when he’d believed she hated him. 

Penny as a power hungry tyrant defying the templars was an image he could direct his anger into, and had done for many months now. The demons had chosen well in taunting him with her face, because no one else had such an uncanny ability to get under his skin in the way that she did. He felt raw around her, exposed and vulnerable in a way he never felt elsewhere, and as much as it frightened him it also exhilarated him. When she’d left- both times, when she’d left the Circle in disgrace and when she’d left a bloodied hero- it had left a gaping hole in him, a wound that had never healed over no matter what he’d tried. 

Penny as she truly was, as a frightened and grieving young woman, had still had the strength and the kindness to lance the wound over his soul, or at least make the attempt. Even with her own pain and her own hurt, even then, she’d still held him while he’d cried and not belittled his awkward attempt at confronting his own horrors, nor had she demanded an accounting of his pain. When he’d stumbled from the chapel hall yesterday afternoon, head pounding and hands shaking, she’d let him leave without a word, recognising his need for solitude in the face of what he’d just tried to confront within him. 

She hadn’t laughed, or treated him with anything but the greatest of kindness and respect while he grieved. 

Anger was easier- he understood anger, even revelled in it. Anger had helped him survive long after when he should have simply given up, and anger gave him back a mimicry of power and control. 

But he couldn’t be angry at her. Maybe that made him the greatest fool in all of Thedas, maybe not- all he knew was that he couldn’t continue to treat her as he had. He had acted abysmally towards her, and she had every right to loathe and despise him for that, but instead she kept her hand extended to him in an offer of peace and friendship.

There was no other goodness in the world that shone with quite the same clarity as the light within Penny Amell. 

He’d run that morning, hoping to clear his head in the freedom of the sea air, alone with his thoughts as he’d lost himself in the familiarity and the simplicity of the exercise. Muscles aching, lungs burning, heart pounding- he was alive, his body and his mind were his own, and he could take pride in that. 

Even if his heart was no longer solely his own. 

The exercise had done him good, for the most part, even if he hadn’t been able to settle the most chaotic of his thoughts. The cobwebs of sleep and nightmares had been swept away in the morning sunshine, and he felt invigorated by the time he made it back to the rectory, red-faced and sweat-soaked and ready to just find a pleasant shady spot to collapse into to relax. Of course, fate always liked to intervene at the most inappropriate of times, and today was no different- as he turned the corner of the outer building to head for the gate to the courtyard, he nearly stumbled over Penny as she sat in the shelter of the wall, her head bowed over a book.

He recovered his balance rather easily, fumbling to a halt beside her even as she squawked in alarm and flattened herself against the wall, clutching the book violently to her chest even as she pulled her legs in close to her, attempting to make herself as small as possible. He couldn’t help it- the moment was far too absurd and he began to laugh, and after a moment of staring up at him through her bedraggled hair she hesitantly joined him, her shoulders slowly relaxing as the tension left her. 

“Maker, but you startled me,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, still holding the book tight against her; she didn’t even let it go when she went to fix her hair, keeping it firmly pinned and out of his gaze as she reached up one-handed to brush her bangs out of her eyes. 

“I wasn’t expecting to be tripping over furtive young women hiding from view in the most isolated Chantry in all of Ferelden,” he said, his heart rate settling back to normal now that the shock had settled. 

She laughed, still a little awkwardly. “Hah, _well_ , yes- you’d be incorrect there. This is _not_ the most isolated Chantry in all of Ferelden, that would be in Haven.”

Cullen blinked at her. “That was a joke,” he said. 

Penny’s expression held for a moment and then she all but flinched, looking utterly crestfallen. “I- I knew that,” she stammered, looking away quickly. “I was trying to make a joke too.”

For a few uncomfortable moments, silence bloomed between them, another two steps backwards for the handful of skittish steps they’d managed to take forward over the last week. He’d been in little more than a holding pen for months now, not given the opportunity to move in any direction- least of all forwards- but in the few days that Penny had been here she’d kicked him out of his self imposed rut of anger and self loathing, and pushed him further towards healing and acceptance than he’d managed in the entire time that he’d been here with his own sullen company. 

He didn’t want to go backwards anymore- he wanted to move on with his life. 

Sighing, he crouched down beside her, trying not to notice the way she tensed at his closeness. “Penny,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you- please, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

She glanced at him from between the fallen locks of her dark hair, and without even thinking he reached out and smoothed them gently to the side, freeing up her face; it was a gesture he must have performed a hundred times when they’d been together in the Circle, she too shy to truly play at being coy, and he too clumsy and awkward to properly act charming in return. More than that, they’d had to be so careful about the time they spent together, the ways in which they interacted. Fixing her hair had only ever taken the space of a moment, but it had been one of the few snatched intimacies they could afford to risk. 

His fingers brushed along her cheek, and he felt her breath catch, eyes wide. He smoothed the silken strands out of the way of her face, hooking it behind her ear, and for a moment he could lie to himself and say that nothing had changed and things were as they’d always been. No demons, no nightmares, no hateful words spat in a moment of shaking panic. 

Penny looked away first, drawing in a shaky breath. “I had actually assumed you were unhappy with m-me,” she said, very deliberately looking in the other direction to him. He dropped his hand away from her face, not needing her to ask to know that his touch was unwanted. “You didn’t really seem comfortable with m-me yesterday afternoon.”

Cullen rubbed wearily at his face; the discussion was inevitable of course, but he’d hoped something more intelligent than ‘ _I was emotionally incapable of talking to anyone_ ’ would have come to him before she’d decided to press the issue. “I was... intolerably rude to you, leaving without talking to you,” he said. She still hadn’t looked back at him and he fought the urge to sigh. “May I sit down?”

“It would be-” She bit her lip, glancing towards him for a brief moment before her gaze skittered away again. “I don’t mind.”

He shifted awkwardly, pressing his back to the stone as he slid down the wall to sit beside her. They were close enough that they were touching in a dozen tiny different ways- her hip against his, her shoulder a good few inches lower than his, her legs rather adorably shorter than his as he stretched out. 

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the urge to put his arm around her and pull her close, nuzzling at the top of her hair. “I’ve been an ass,” he said bluntly, looking down at his hands in his lap because it was the safest place to look. “There’s not really any other way to put it. I hurt you, and that is unforgivable.”

“I rather think that the decision on whether or not forgiveness is merited lies with me,” she said softly, hugging the book with a little more care as she ducked her head. 

“I’m not trying to put words into your mouth- I’m just acknowledging my behaviour, and that I’d...” He hesitated, looking for the right words. “I’d understand if you didn’t _want_ to forgive me.”

She paused for a long time, and when she sighed it was a defeated sound. “I don’t know what I want,” she said finally. “And Maker knows, I don’t have a clue when it comes to your intentions anymore, Cullen.”

He tipped his head back against the wall, looking up at the sky. “I want to move forward,” he said. “I want to... _get better_. To be better. To do something other than wait for someone else to decide that I’m good enough to face the world again.”

“You _are_ good enough, Cullen,” she said instantly, still not looking at him. “I- you don’t have to doubt that.”

Her immediate defence of him surprised him, and he looked down at her; after a moment’s hesitation she glanced nervously in his direction and for a few intoxicating seconds she held his gaze. He could feel temptation rising up within him- the desire to just close the last few inches between them and kiss her- so instead to distract himself he cleared his throat and asked “What are you reading?”

She laughed- clearly relieved at the change in topic- but she was still hesitant, nervous as she tucked her hair back behind her ear. “You’ll laugh at me,” she said, fidgeting as she tapped her fingertips nervously against the leather cover. 

“I promise not to laugh,” he said, and when she glanced at him he pressed a hand to his heart. “Templar’s honour.”

That earned him another laugh, this one a little more relaxed than the previous one. “It’s just silly,” she said, still holding it close to her chest. “It’s nothing important or anything.”

“Well, it’s obviously important to you, so that makes it important.”

She bit her lip, and it drew his gaze back to her mouth again, and thoughts of kissing her. “It’s...” There was colour in her cheeks, and she laughed yet again. “It’s silly,” she said, finally loosening her hold on the book and laying it flat on her lap. “It’s j-just a romance story. Sometimes I n-need an escape from politics and war and m-magic and it’s nice to believe that happy endings m-might exist, however ridiculous.”

Cullen blinked, not expecting the lengthy explanation from her. “I-”

“And I mean it’s not like I _believe_ in these sorts of foolish relationships,” she babbled, “I know that real relationships take time and patience and respect and care, and there’s no ending like the end of a story, it’s about maintenance and-”

“ _Penny_.” He put his hand over hers where she was picking at a frayed corner on the book. “I only asked what you were reading.” 

She took a deep breath, drooping back against the wall; he could feel her trembling. “I know, I know, I’m just...” She bit her lip again. “I’m sorry, I’m so used to having to justify my every waking moment these days. If I’m not being tugged every which way by the Bannorn, I’m being asked to attend negotiations on behalf of the various fraternities, and that’s before the Wardens start trying to-”

“ _Penny_ ,” he repeated, lacing his fingers through hers just as he had yesterday in the chantry.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her teeth snapping shut with an audible clack. “I’m babbling,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “You have nothing to apologise for,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “It’s clearly important to you.”

“I probably wouldn’t even have brought it with me, but it was a gift from Leliana, and it’s nice to have little parts of her with me.”

Something squirmed unpleasantly in his belly. “Leliana?”

His tone must have given him away, because she looked at him sharply. “She was with me when we rescued you,” she said. “You could barely walk, and we helped you down through the tower- surely you remember her?”

That was a rather large assumption on her part- his memories of those days were scattered and violent at best, fragmented by the endless torture and torment, and he _still_ had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner up there, even all these months later. “My recollection of that day is not... reliable,” he said, a sour taste in his mouth. “But I can assume from what you are alluding to that she has your heart.” 

She sighed, almost irritably. “My heart is not a _possession_ , Cullen,” she said. “I love Leliana, and she loves me, but that does not preclude the possibility that I could fall in love with another- nor does it diminish my love for her if I do.”

He paused, considering his words carefully. “I apologise,” he said with a barely restrained sigh. “I’ve clearly still got a ways to go in recovering my social graces- but she is lucky to have your affection.”

“I am lucky to have _her_ ,” Penny said quietly. “She stood by my side through the very worst of it all- I would not have made it were it not for her.”

In all probability, she did not mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that was what it sounded like to him- this woman, Leliana, had remained steadfast even in the face of accusations of treachery and the threat of an Archdemon, whereas he had turned on her like a rabid dog.

Shame sat in his stomach like a misshapen stone, anger and self loathing burning a slow and steady path through his chest.

“I’m glad you had someone,” he said hollowly.

He heard her take a tremulous breath. “I’m sorry you didn’t,” she whispered. 

For a moment the words hung heavy between them, the air sharp and tense and ripe with potential, and when Cullen turned his head towards her, she was already watching him. The look in her eyes would have made him sway on his feet, were he standing- grief and love and shame and hope, her dark eyes brimming with tears and a desperate longing that made his heart stop. 

He glanced down at her lips, only for a fraction of a second, but when he looked back up to her eyes he could see that she’d seen it. “Penny,” he began, not sure what it was exactly that he wanted to say to her.

But he needn’t have worried.

With a soft sound that might have been a sigh of trepidation, she lunged forward, her hands going up to frame his face as she pressed her mouth to his. There was a desperation in the way she kissed, as if she were frightened it might be the last time ever that she would have an opportunity to touch him and kiss him. The handful of kisses they’d stolen in the Circle had been quick and relatively chaste, both out of fear of discovery and the awkward way in which their courtship had progressed; this was a kiss born out of frustration and yearning and heartbreak, a kiss that expressed a year’s worth of anger and loss and hunger. 

After the moment of stunned shock wore off, his hands went instantly to her waist, holding her steady as in her overeagerness she nearly sent them toppling backwards. His eyes drifted shut and he leaned into her hands, shuddering as her fingers ran softly over his cheeks and around his neck, sliding up into his hair. When he gasped quietly she took advantage of the moment, catching his lower lip between hers and brushing her tongue against his. It was an electric sensation, alien and strange and invigorating, and he relaxed into her touch, following her lead as she kissed him until his head spun. 

When she pulled away for air, she leaned her forehead against his, little puffs of her breath warming his tingling lips. She was half sprawled across his lap, almost pinning him to the stone wall as she lay across him with her fingers buried in his hair. Panting, she said “I’m s-sorry, I should have asked first-”

Cullen kissed her, because that seemed like an adequate way to accept someone’s apology, and because right at that moment he couldn’t really guarantee that his mouth would work if he tried to croak out the immensity of his feelings for her. She sighed against his mouth, a desperate sound, and tightened her hold on him as he let her take whatever she needed from him. 

When they broke apart for the second time, he swallowed several times as he tried to make his tongue cooperate with his desire to speak. “I suppose that makes us even, then,” he finally rasped, cradling her ever so gently in his arms as he brushed her wayward hair away from her face. 

There were still tears in her eyes, and a few had escaped onto her cheeks at some point in the last few minutes. “Not a day went p-past that I didn’t think of you,” she whispered, shaking slightly beneath his hands. “And I never forgave myself for what happened to you, up in the t-tower. I’m so s-sorry, Cullen.” 

_Don’t be_ , he wanted to say. _It was never yours to apologize for_ , he wanted to whisper as he smoothed away her tears with his thumb. _I can’t take back the hurt I’ve caused and I’m sorry_ , was on the tip of his tongue.

Instead he held her close, trying to ignore the guilt when he said none of those things and instead murmured “I love you, Penny.”

She closed her eyes. “I love you too, Cullen.”

***

It was easier when she’d believed he’d hated her. 

Well, perhaps easier wasn’t quite the right word to explain it, but she was even more confused and at a loss now than she had been several days ago. When she’d believed that Cullen hated her, that was a door closed in her past, and she could move on even if it hurt her to do so. There was a world beyond the Circle that needed her, and even if she grieved for what lay behind her, she could lose herself in the beauty and richness of Ferelden.

She could lose herself in the beauty and love of Leliana’s arms.

But Leliana wasn’t here now, no matter how desperately she craved the warmth and safety of her embrace, or how anxious she was for her counsel. Her heart was in turmoil, her mind even more so, and more than anything she craved her gentle laugh and wise words. She wished it was a simple as a girlish crush, so that she could blush and hide her face against Leliana’s stomach while Leliana giggled and ran her fingers through her hair soothingly, teasing her gently with observations about Cullen’s whiskey gold eyes and capable hands. 

This was not a simple girlish crush, however, and Leliana was many days’ travel from her.

In the green stretch of carefully groomed lawn beyond her window, Cullen was engrossed in some complicated sword routine- she’d seen him practising several times over the last week and not thought a great deal of it, but now she watched him closely. She had no idea what the moves meant, or whether there was a pattern to his steps; it certainly _looked_ graceful enough, but she’d always had a tendency even at camp to slowly let her attention drift whenever Alistair had tried to explain the discipline behind a templar’s training. 

He was beautiful to watch, and she suspected that he knew she was watching him from her window- there was a touch of something flamboyant in his gestures, his movements a little too theatrical to be efficient in battle. Had she not been so miserably twisted up inside, she might have smiled at that; after a year of relentless war, she had apparently picked up some measure of appreciation for a warrior’s skill, even if Alistair’s lessons had sent her into an early sleep. 

Cullen moved to a rhythm that was clearly second nature to him, and the sword glinted in the sunlight as he spun and parried against invisible foes. He flowed easily from one move to the next, confidence shining from him, and it was probably the only time all week that she’d seen him look so self assured.

If she had to truly think on it, it was probably the most self assured she’d _ever_ seen him.

She closed her eyes against the tears threatening to spill over and turned away from the window, bowing her head over the locket as she turned it over endlessly between her fingers. It was the locket he’d given her so long ago, a promise of love in happier times, and even after everything that had happened over the last year or more, all the pain between them, it was still a promise she clung to on her darkest nights. 

Sniffling, she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and prised open the locket with immense care, the familiar scent of Andraste’s Grace drifting up to her a moment later. At the time that she’d put the flower within the inner clasp, she’d tried not to think too much about it- the symbolism in carrying around a token each from the two people who meant the world to her. The man who had loved her and broken her heart, and the woman who had gently put the shattered pieces back together.

She’d carried that locket with her through the void and back, because it kept her sane and grounded on her worst days. It was a symbol of happier days, of a more normal life, of a time when she assumed that all that fate had in store for her was a long and relatively peaceful life as an Enchanter, caring for and teaching the younglings as they came to the tower, maintaining the peace between her peers as the fraternities argued over and over again. 

How strange her path was now, and how lost she felt. 

She had not the luxury of following her heart, even though there was a tiny sliver of hope dangling before her- the option was there, dancing just at the edge of her thoughts and taunting her. If she enacted the Right of Conscription, Cullen could leave with her as early as tomorrow. He needn’t wait for word from the Knight Commander, or from the White Spire, and would be free to pursue a greater life of glory and humble service, just as he desired. 

_And he would be beside her_ , the tempting little thought said gleefully. She could ride to Amaranthine with her head held high, Cullen at her side and Leliana waiting for her, ready to face whatever the arling could throw at her. She could face the darkspawn and know that he was at her back, sword and shield at the ready to defend her, and a kiss waiting for her once the battle was won. 

She could turn to him in the night, no longer bound by the crippling fears and watching eyes of the Circle, and know that he was there beside her in the darkness, arms warm and waiting for her. 

The whispers were so strong that she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, all but convinced that if she looked over her shoulder at that moment she’d see a desire demon, smile cruel and gentle as it beckoned to her. 

Gritting her teeth, she clicked the locket closed and tucked it back below the collar of her gown. It hung heavily between her breasts, the metal warm from where she had clutched it so tightly in her palm, a disorienting weight against her chest. 

That seemed poignant, given her inner turmoil.

There was a half finished letter to Leliana on the desk, more lines crossed out than there were untouched, and she sighed as she slid into the seat again. It would be rude to send the missive as it currently was, so she pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the precious stack beside her and began anew. It was not so much that she feared what Leliana would say in regards to her burgeoning feelings for Cullen and more that she could not help but feel that she was on a path to nothing but more heartache and disaster, and as deep as her affection ran for him she just... wanted a calmer perspective on things, someone more removed from the situation than she was.

The words were clumsy, but she managed to convey her confusion adequately- or at least, she could only hope she did. Leliana had a remarkable gift for seeing right to the heart of a problem, and she didn’t doubt that her love would sigh and chuckle over the mess she was making of herself via her letters.

She sealed the missive to Leliana, lingering over the warm wax as if she could convey her love and the ferocity with which she missed her through the impression of her touch alone. Would Leliana see the faint hints of her fingerprint in the wax and know how she yearned for her, how desperately she longed for her company and her kisses and her reassurances?

And then she hesitated, a new idea slowly unfurling in her thoughts, refusing to be ignored. She bit her lip as she mulled it over, and then reached for a fresh sheet of parchment before she could second guess herself, setting aside Leliana’s letter with care. 

This letter she did not fill with flowery epitaphs or lovelorn language- she was brief and to the point, friendly without being familiar, and she did not hesitate to plant not so subtle reminders as to her newfound prestige and rank. 

She signed it with a flourish and pressed her seal into place, still amused that she had a seal of her very own in the first place. She turned it over and wrote a single name on the front.

_Knight Commander Greagoir._


End file.
